Fourth Sunday of Advent Sermon

Well… all I have to say is, it’s a good thing Jesus wasn’t conceived during COVID. Otherwise, there’s no way Mary would have been allowed to go to the hill country to visit Elizabeth. To say nothing of travelling all the way to Bethlehem. This from the parent who just learned on Thursday that his son can’t come home for Christmas because of the omicron variant. Travel is being stopped again. The virus is flaring up in new and threatening ways and suddenly we’re all on the alert again that everything may be on the verge of shutting down, returning us to a place we don’t want to go. Which leads me to a very “human” reading of today’s text. I haven’t been reading this familiar story through much of a theological lens – what is God telling us? Rather, I find myself looking at Mary and Elizabeth to see what they have to tell us. And not so much as celebrated saints of the church – but more as fellow human beings, doing their best to navigate their way through very strange circumstances. Just like we are. And the first thing that draws my attention is the fact that Mary made her trip at all. Why did she make the trip to Elizabeth’s house? I suspect she just wanted to be with someone who understood (or at least partially understood) the craziness of what she was going through. Mary’s pregnancy was, to say the least, fairly strange. And bewildering. And exciting. And terrifying. And in a situation like this, it makes sense she’d want to be with someone who understood. At least a little. And in God’s providence, Elizabeth was several months into a strange pregnancy of her own. A barren woman, past menopause, suddenly pregnant with something of a miracle child. Of course! That’s the woman Mary would choose to be with. I get it. Not the pregnant part. I don’t get that at all. But the wanting to be with someone who understands. Isn’t this what we all do? We feel it especially in times of bereavement. I remember when my friend Petronella died. She had been an extraordinary friend to me when I lived in Northern Ireland. She was old enough to be my grandmother, and I can honestly say I’ve never known anyone in my life like her: so wise and funny, and fascinating, and alive and of such mature faith. And years later, when Cynthia and I had recently moved to small town, Alabama, I got word one morning that Petronella had died the night before of a massive heart attack. I told Cynthia before going to work. And that evening when I got home Cynthia was just chattering away, catching me up on the events of the day, like couples do. But I wasn’t responding with much energy, and she asked what was wrong, and I said, “Cynthia, I’m grieving.” And her face dropped, “Oh, Eric, I’m so sorry. I forgot.” Which was natural. She’d never met Petronella. She couldn’t feel – because she didn’t know – the substance of what this world had lost. I remember how desolate I felt in the solitude of my grief. When we are going through something significant – significantly sorrowful, or significantly wonderful – we don’t want to remain alone. We want the comfort of others who understand and share what we’re feeling. Who else in this world could feel – even a bit – of what Mary felt, but Elizabeth? This is the gift of community: people we love and trust and who – when the time comes, can sincerely say – “I know. I know.” So look, then, how well, Elizabeth received her. When we are going through something significant, and we seek someone out to process it with, the worst thing that can happen is for that person to turn the conversation towards themselves. This week, right when I got word that Henry wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas, I just happened to run into someone I knew. And I told them my news, looking for a little commiseration, and she said, “Oh I know. It’s awful. My friend, blah, blah, blah…” and she launched into some story about her friend. But I wasn’t listening. At that point, I didn’t care about her friend. I was just feeling rotten and wanted someone to listen to me, so I could work through my own disappointment. I can compare that to my experience this September, at the moment I said good-bye to Henry. He and I had been to lunch with a friend. And when lunch was over, he stood up, gave me a hug, then walked out of the restaurant alone to catch the bus back to campus. And that was it. So thank God for the quality of friend I was with. Even though it had been ages since we’d seen each other, and in normal circumstances our conversation would have been a back-and-forth of getting caught up with each other, this was no normal circumstance. I was feeling wretched and sorrowful; a season of my life had just ended in her presence. And she knew that today was a day for listening. And that’s the kind of response we see in Elizabeth. Now – truth be told, she does some talking – but it’s entirely focused on Mary. She’s not talking about herself or her own extraordinary pregnancy. There would be time for that later on. They spent the next few months together. But right now, at this moment, there was one person who was the center of the story, and that was Mary who finally had someone who could listen with real understanding. Again, this is a central part of what it means for us to be human, in healthy community with each other. For many of us, our natural impulse is to hijack most conversations with some story or opinion of our own. But when someone is going through something significant, it is an act of love to tamp down our own stories to be present to them in theirs. This typically requires a certain degree of self-awareness and discipline. But it is more than just self-control. It is a belief that there is actually value – and in this case, superior value – to the importance of what that person has to say. And when such occasions happen, it is an honor to be witness and recipient of that person’s story – that person being transformed by their experience. Which brings me to the next thing I observe in this story, and that is the nature of Elizabeth’s greeting: “Why has this happened to me,” she said, “that the mother of my Lord comes to me?” I remember once, feeling exactly this way. In fact, the sensation was so similar, even in the moment, I knew I was coupling my feelings with the familiarity of Elizabeth’s greeting. It was years ago. A friend of ours was preparing to marry a man who had three children from his first marriage. And one of the children – who was very young at the time – was just being diagnosed with severe and frightening developmental difficulties. Which meant marrying the man would also mean committing herself to a future with this child, which was certain to come at great cost. Our friend and her fiancé spent a lot of time meeting with specialists to understand just what this kid’s condition entailed, and what their future would look like as a merged household. And to be clear, our friend was not idealistic or naïve. She actually had a masters in a kind of specialized therapy for children. If anyone could handle it, it would be she. And I’d just gotten an update from Cynthia on all of these developments, when I happened to run into our friend. And that’s when I had my Elizabeth reaction: Who am I, even to be in your presence? That really was what it felt like – like I’d just rounded the corner and run into a saint. God had prepared her in such profound ways, and she was now choosing to say “yes” in such risky and self-sacrificial ways, that, in her presence, I felt myself witness to an in-breaking of God’s salvation for this broken and hurting world. This kid now had a chance because of who she was, and what she was committing herself to do. So lastly, I want to look at Mary, herself, and who she was becoming in this story. It ends with her song, traditionally known as “the Magnificat.” If you’re not familiar with it, let’s just say, it’s way more than some “I’m so happy about having a baby” song. The Magnificat has become the rallying cry for powerless people throughout the world and throughout the centuries who choose to hope – who choose to believe in the face of tyrants and oppressors – that God is ultimately on the side of the poor. The weight and power within Mary’s song is so revolutionary that in times of crisis, multiple governments have banned it being publicly sung. Martin Luther translated the whole Bible into the vernacular – but left the Magnificat in Latin, because it was too dangerous! But what is particularly noteworthy for us in our very human reading of today’s text, is how Mary’s life-changing circumstances opened her eyes to a new kind of insight and clarity about what is fundamentally true of this life and God’s presence in it. For this, too, can often be the case for us. I have the regular privilege of being with families gathered at a deathbed. And what I encounter time and again, is that when someone is dying, what matters in this life (and what doesn’t matter) becomes exceedingly clear. What matters? Love, forgiveness, gratitude, our essential oneness, and God’s essential mercy. Everything else – all the busyness and nonsense – gets swept away like so much snot being wiped away from weeping faces. And although that intense emotion doesn’t last, our hope is the clarity revealed in that moment will last, then alter the way we now see this world and our place within it. We have now been through nearly two years of a global pandemic. We may well be on the precipice of another severe wave. And so the question becomes: Has this brought clarity to us about what is essentially true of this human life we’re living? Do we now have a deeper wisdom to face whatever may lie before us? For me, it has been the clarity that the values on which our church is founded – compassion, forgiveness, unity, hope – are exactly what this world needs. Come what may, we can be the good news for them. For the Mighty One has done great things for us, and holy is his name.